Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 1

The Haunting of the New (#litres_trial_promo)

Tomorrow’s Child (#litres_trial_promo)

I Sing the Body Electric! (#litres_trial_promo)

The Women (#litres_trial_promo)

The Inspired Chicken Motel (#litres_trial_promo)

Yes, We’ll Gather at the River (#litres_trial_promo)

Have I Got a Chocolate Bar for You! (#litres_trial_promo)

A Story of Love (#litres_trial_promo)

The Parrot Who Met Papa (#litres_trial_promo)

The October Game (#litres_trial_promo)

Punishment Without Crime (#litres_trial_promo)

A Piece of Wood (#litres_trial_promo)

The Blue Bottle (#litres_trial_promo)

Long After Midnight (#litres_trial_promo)

The Utterly Perfect Murder (#litres_trial_promo)

The Better Part of Wisdom (#litres_trial_promo)

Interval in Sunlight (#litres_trial_promo)

The Black Ferris (#litres_trial_promo)

Farewell Summer (#litres_trial_promo)

McGillahee’s Brat (#litres_trial_promo)

The Aqueduct (#litres_trial_promo)

Gotcha! (#litres_trial_promo)

The End of the Beginning (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also By Ray Bradbury (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Drunk, and in Charge of a Bicyclean introduction by Ray Bradbury (#ulink_b068578f-bdaf-5184-9213-69cafa0aba1a)

In 1953 I wrote an article for The Nation defending my work as a sciencefiction writer, even though that label only applied to perhaps one third of my output each year.

A few weeks later, in late May, a letter arrived from Italy. On the back of the envelope, in a spidery hand, I read these words:

B. BERENSONI TATTI, SETTIGNANOFIRENZE, ITALIAFIRENZE, ITALIA

I turned to my wife and said. ‘My God, this can’t be from the Berenson, can it, the great art historian?!’

‘Open it,’ said my wife.

I did, and read:

Dear Mr Bradbury:

In 89 years of life, this is the first fan letter I have written. It is to tell you that I have just read your article in The Nation – ‘Day After Tomorrow.’ It is the first time I have encountered the statement by an artist in any field, that to work creatively he must put flesh into it and enjoy it as a lark, or as a fascinating adventure.

How different from the workers in the heavy industry that professional writing has become!

If you ever touch Florence, come to see me.

Sincerely yours. B. BERENSON.

Thus, at the age of thirty-three, I had my way of seeing, writing and living approved of by a man who became a second father to me.

I needed that approval. We all need someone higher, wiser, older to tell us we’re not crazy after all, that what we’re doing is all right. All right, hell, fine!

But it is easy to doubt yourself, because you look around at a community of notions held by other writers, other intellectuals, and they make you blush with guilt. Writing is supposed to be difficult, agonizing, a dreadful exercise, a terrible occupation.

But, you see, my stories have led me through my life. They shout, I follow. They run up and bite me on the leg – I respond by writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish, the idea lets go, and runs off.

That is the kind of life I’ve had. Drunk, and in charge of a bicycle, as an Irish police report once put it. Drunk with life, that is, and not knowing where off to next. But you’re on your way before dawn. And the trip? Exactly one half terror, exactly one half exhilaration.

When I was three my mother snuck me in and out of movies two or three times a week. My first film was Lon Chaney in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I suffered permanent curvature of the spine and of my imagination that day a long time ago in 1923. From that hour on, I knew a kindred and wonderfully grotesque compatriot of the dark when I saw one. I ran off to see all the Chaney films again and again to be deliciously frightened. The Phantom of the Opera stood astride my life with his scarlet cape. And when it wasn’t the Phantom it was the terrible hand that gestured from behind the bookcase in The Cat and the Canary, bidding me to come find more darkness hid in books.

I was in love, then, with monsters and skeletons and circuses and carnivals and dinosaurs and, at last, the red planet, Mars.

From these primitive bricks I have built a life and a career. By my staying in love with all of these amazing things, all of the good things in my existence have come about.

In other words, I was not embarrassed at circuses. Some people are. Circuses are loud, vulgar, and smell in the sun. By the time many people are fourteen or fifteen, they have been divested of their loves, their ancient and intuitive tastes, one by one, until when they reach maturity there is no fun left, no zest, no gusto, no flavor. Others have criticized, and they have criticized themselves, into embarrassment. When the circus pulls in at five of a dark cold summer morn, and the calliope sounds, they do not rise and run, they turn in their sleep, and life passes by.

I did rise and run. I learned that I was right and everyone else wrong when I was nine. Buck Rogers arrived on scene that year, and it was instant love. I collected the daily strips, and was madness maddened by them. Friends criticized. Friends made fun. I tore up the Buck Rogers strips. For a month I walked through my fourth-grade classes, stunned and empty. One day I burst into tears, wondering what devastation had happened to me. The answer was: Buck Rogers. He was gone, and life simply wasn’t worth living. The next thought was: Those are not my friends, the ones who got me to tear the strips apart and so tear my own life down the middle; those are my enemies.

I went back to collecting Buck Rogers. My life has been happy ever since. For that was the beginning of my writing science fiction. Since then, I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space-travel, sideshows or gorillas. When such occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.